Ellie

2012 - 2026

In Loving Memory of Ellie
Fourteen Years of Wholehearted Love (my best friend).

When God spoke creation into existence, there was first an empty void. Daddy always says He layered that creation from the micro to the macro, just to fill that void in us — and part of that creation was dogs. Then He made man, and set us in dominion over it all. Not to be in charge, but to be blessed with something that fills us with purpose. Ellie was God's creation, given to us as a miracle for a greater purpose.

There's a verse in Romans that speaks of groanings words cannot express — groanings that come from the heart, that the Spirit interprets for us. Ellie spoke in those very same groanings. Hers was a language understood not on the intellectual level, but on the level of the heart.

Scripture tells us a cord of three strands is not easily broken. Ours was bound by something we never expected — a small, cotton-candy-colored dog who carried within her every fruit the Spirit produces: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. God always leaves us clues to His nature, small glimpses of what it actually looks like lived out, and Ellie embodied every one of them. She was not merely a good dog. She was a living, breathing, wagging testimony of what those words mean when God writes them in fur instead of on paper.

Her joy could not be contained. When we came home from a date, she didn't simply greet us — she ran, clear across the hall and back, wiggling, hopping, pitter-pattering from one of us to the other, circling for more love, unable to decide whose arms to stay in because she wanted both. She spun in circles to greet us, favorite toy already in her mouth, the whole of her joy on display before she'd even reached us. She twirled at the word "treat" and could barely wait for the bite.

And yet the same dog who could not sit still for joy could sit utterly still for peace. She once rode through an entire sermon in Daddy's lap, unmoving, undistracted, present in a way grown people rarely manage. Outside, she had a habit so small and so completely hers: stomping only her right foot while she watched the birds, patient and delighted, over and over. She knew "leave it" and, somehow, honored it. She'd shake with the right paw only, or roll over and demand rubs for her belly the moment she heard "Ellie rhymes with jelly." In the yard she'd chase her froggy friends with a wagging tail, never quite catching them, never wanting to. She heard things none of us could — a supersonic hearing that always found us.

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I want to tell you that isn't true. Ellie didn't just grow sweeter with time — she grew smarter. Good on the plane, good in the car, good in the truck, good in every new house, good on vacation, good at the doctor's office, good at the vet. No matter where she was, she was just good. When I had trouble sleeping, Ellie and Daddy kept the night watch together, and he taught our little cotton candy puffball a quiet kind of self-control most dogs never learn. All it took was, "Ellie, no bark, Mama night night" — and after just a few times, she understood. Even when her arch nemesis, the squirrel, sat chattering in the trees above her, she'd make every sound imaginable at the quietest possible volume — but she would not bark. As her reward, Daddy would take her outside once I was up, shout "SQUIRREL!" at the top of his lungs, and let her bark to her heart's delight.

Ellie was the interpretation of the groaning of our very hearts, and she loved each of us in her own particular way. She came into Daddy's life as a package deal with me — and when he entered the picture, he was the first man Ellie ever chose, not just accepted. She gave him kiss after kiss as her seal of approval, a welcome she'd never given anyone else. He'd always believed bigger dogs were better dogs, having grown up with his beloved Tinker, half shepherd, half collie. But Ellie didn't just win his heart — she won him over completely. No more misconceptions. Ellie was always living proof that something bigger than you can imagine can be wrapped up in merely ten pounds.

She was an overcomer, just like me — I live with what's called the worst pain condition known to man, stage 3 full-body CRPS. Ellie did not only sit beside my hardest seasons. She helped carry them. By definition, an "emotional therapy animal." But in reality, a little vessel of God's loving kindness, directly expressed to our hearts. She watched every move I made. She came to almost every appointment, to surgery, on the long flights from California to Texas and back again, through house after house, season after season — and somehow, impossibly, she only got sweeter. In her kindness, in her goodness, we saw a creature entirely without cruelty — she was even gentle with baby animals, careful with the small and the fragile, as if she understood exactly what tenderness required.

When the days were heaviest, she laid her chest into me and answered, clear as speech, "mmM hmm." "I love you, Ellie. Do you love mommy?" And she would close her eyes, kiss me, settle her whole self against me, and say "uh huh." She loved with her heart, and there was never any question of it.

She was a miracle before she was ever ours to keep. After a pit bull attack that should have taken her, she was wagging her tail the very next day. That was Ellie — she met the world with courage and a wag, and she made everyone smile who met her. Point a camera at her and she smiled back. It was, we understand now, an early glimpse of the fight that lived in her all along.

On her last day, that fight showed itself one final time. She battled for so many hours in her oxygen chamber, with me by her side, until Daddy arrived to say goodbye. She was fourteen. We never believed it would be our last day. We wish we'd had more time. But she fought until her last breath — because that is how love is. It feels endless, right up until the hour it asks us to let go.

The cord that bound us — Mommy, Daddy, and Ellie — turned out to be exactly what scripture promised: not easily broken. Not even by this. Because love, real love, the kind God grows in us and sometimes chooses to show us through fur and four legs and a wagging tail, does not expire. It simply waits on the other side.

Ellie, you made our life amazing. You were such a blessing. You will forever be on our hearts. We miss you so much. Thank you, our sweet honey, for being our world. We cannot wait to see you again in heaven, where our cotton candy girl that came to life still smiles, still spins with a toy in her mouth, still waddles as she walks, birds still gather, and a right foot still stamps with joy.

We love you, Ellie. Always. You will always be my soulmate dog and best friend.
Mommy and Daddy